From Many Peoples, Strength
by donttakemyusername
Summary: From Many Peoples, Strength, or so is the motto of Saskatchewan. But who exactly were those many peoples? What exactly do they mean by strength? Using Hetalia, both OCs (provinces) and real characters (such as Canada) as well as real historical figures, we tell the history of the Province of Saskatchewan, but in a bit more interesting or a light. *SOME CONTENT MAY DISTURB YOU.*
1. Battle at Batoche

_In 1870, they, Red River, violently rebelled, taking over the local HBC Fort with what could only be described as ease. It was an easy victory for Riel, as well as for his most loyal follower, the young Louis Pallister Williams, who had even named himself after this man. Louis Riel had since then fled to the United States, knowing that the RCMP wanted him for treason. They said it was for the murder of that bloody nuisance Thomas Scott, but everybody knew them to be lying, although indeed Riel was guilty._

 _ **1885**_

A little boy sat atop the roof of his small sod house, claiming to be "watching over the farm," although his brother knew very well that the child was using this as an excuse to have climbed to the roof. His older brother wasn't too strict with him, however, and stated that so long as nothing ended up broken, he didn't mind where this child perched himself.

The child readjusted the clips of his grey overalls, having found their current adjustment a tad bit too loose. He stared at the long trail that him and his brother had built out of dirt and stone, quick to notice that someone happened to be walking on it, and this certainly wasn't his older brother, the usual blazer of this trail. He tilted his head in confusion, in the meantime raising an eyebrow in suspicion. This man donned a patched-up, worn-out jacket and a pair of trousers in the same condition. His shoes were small and flat. He couldn't be very rich. His hair was braided far past his shoulders, and one European may wonder if this strange creature was a woman of some sort. The child knew better: This one was just a commoner. They had come in large numbers earlier this year. Of course, with these people came the child's worst enemy, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. These common folk brought bad news.

"Hey!" The child cried, getting the man's attention almost immediately. "Y-You! Why are you at my home?"

The man tilted his head before replying in the little English he knew, "The train! The surveyors! Taking the land.. Forcing us West… So… We are here."

The child understood this nonetheless. He knew what was happening. He was afraid that this would happen. And now that his big brother, the strong, protective force that had kept him alive all these years, was in jail for treason and violent acts, there was nobody to help him! He would have to fend for himself.

The child was extremely self-sufficient. He already was an excellent farmer, and he knew how to properly perform most domestic tasks. In addition to this, he had some experience in the medical field, having practised this by healing nearly all of the injuries the animals of his farm had sustained. Of course, that being said, he was just a wee thing no older in appearance than the age of two or three (and that at the most); there was no way his responsibility and maturity was enough to protect him from violence! But the boy was smart. He knew exactly who could do the job.

" _The rules have been set by the real government! We want rights for the North West Territories! We demand provincial status!"_

The little boy ran through the small community of Batoche, holding in his hands a newspaper much larger in size than he. Though smart, the young boy lacked a formal education which would have taught him basic literacy and numeracy skills. Unfortunately, those damned white men of John A Macdonald's had said that "these Metis were unworthy of such education" and thus, nearly none of these people could read the newspaper for the boy. But the paper was the least of his importance.

"Quit running about, kid!" One of the adults grumbled, ripping the paper from the boy's hands and instead replacing it with a bayonet. "There you go! A wee weapon for the wee rebel!"

The boy blinked. He did agree to this. He did ask for this. But he never wanted to take direct part in the battle. Nevertheless, he went along with what the man was telling him, deciding it to be in his best interest. "And what are you fightin' with?"

"Muskets of the finest quality! The Mounties will be so shocked! They'll have their guns and we'll have ours and we will surely win!" The man boasted with an eccentric smile. "We'll defeat all three-hundred of those blasted Mountie men!" There was a pause, silence ringing out through the community, soon to be replaced by ripping bullets and piercing screams.

The little boy ran away as quickly as his legs could take him, ducking into one of the many small shacks that had been established in this community. His ears and head hurt from the noise and his heart ached for all those in the attack. Through a small hole in the wall, the boy dared look at the scene before him. It was a bloodbath out there, the RCMP greatly outnumbering the rebels of South Branch. Gunshot after gunshot rang out through the fields as screams filled the air and the bodies quickly dropped. The little boy watched from the shack in absolute horror, his breath speeding up, each breath containing less and less air. Corpses littered the ground, blood covering the torn and tattered clothing and the horrible wounds of the dying. The child saw his own people lying facedown on the bloody ground, bullets lodged into their spines. Policemen slumped against the little shacks surrounding, their cold hands at their sides, bullets having completely torn their faces off. Men and even young boys, some barely having reached fourteen, lie on the ground, clutching their wounded bodies and screaming with agony. Those screams, the young child knew, were nothing more than unrestrained begs for mercy.

Sharp pain radiated throughout this child, causing him to let out his own shrill scream. He grasped his pounding, throbbing head in his hands and closed his eyes, which were quick to produce tears. The child was alone in this shack. His people were losing and they were being killed, and all thanks to his silly decision to disobey! Now, the child was most certainly not sobbing due to the excruciating pain; now, he was crying due to the fact that this entire mess was all his fault.

Still, the people out there were bullheaded and determined and thus the fighting continued. It lasted three long days of death, gunshots, and bloodshed, until the last rebel was dead, and the three leaders - among them Louis Riel - were successfully captured by RCMP. The boy was sitting against the wall of the shack, trying desperately to catch his breath, gurgling up and spitting out blood every couple of minutes. He barely noticed the silence that eventually fell over Batoche, instead curling up limply and trembling in both sorrow and pain.

He lie there on the ground in that shack for just a few minutes before a tall, shadowy figure loomed over him. The boy was in so much pain that he was barely capable of lifting his head to take a quick glance at whoever this was. However, a booming voice clarified quite clearly, the same voice sending chills down the boy's spine.

"You thought you'd win?" If not the RCMP, then this man was the most feared enemy throughout Saskatchewan at that time. _Ontario, of course, and none other than Ontario._ "You really thought that your petty village could challenge me?"

"Go away!" Screeched Batoche both defensively and in fear. Unfortunately, he was in no place to argue as of now.

Ontario just chuckled at this weak attempt, before squatting down to the other's level and grasping onto the boy's chin, forcing Batoche to tilt his head to stare Ontario right in the eye. Ontario. That bloody monster, with his incredible strength, diabolical heart, and menacing smirk that just challenged anybody to step out of line just so Ontario could hand out consequences… The others knew this man was nothing but evil, but Saskatchewan was just a plot of land with a railroad and some grain on it: He hadn't listened in on the gossip, let alone been a victim to Ontario's evil… until now. "You'll see, Saskatchewan," He replied with that diabolical grin. "I'll be the real reason you cry…"

"You'll never make me cry!" The boy protested, struggling to free himself from Ontario's iron grip. "Nobody'll never make me cry!" His grammar was not exactly en pointe, causing a soft chuckle from Ontario. His opponent was stupid, uneducated… _weak._

"We'll see about that, you little stubborn brat!" Ontario stated with a sneer, harshly shoving the other back as he stormed out the door.

 _ **November 15**_

Saskatchewan was dragged out of bed that day by none other than Ontario himself. "Today will be a particularly challenging day for you, rebel," That monster said teasingly as he shoved the other out the door. Saskatchewan - like many people at the time - wore the same filthy, torn rags every day, and it was also clear that he hadn't bathed in quite a while. His face and hands were dirty and scraped, and there was still plenty of dried blood covering his skin from way back in May that year. The boy was stick-thin, in fact, he was so skinny that all of the worms that had attempted to crawl up him never quite found good grip and thus had to drop. Any normal person could see that this boy was not in any condition to be going anywhere (especially not a long, harsh walk in the freezing winter), but Ontario, of course, was not going to take that as an excuse. 'He should have thought twice about disrespecting me,' Ontario figured.

The walk was long and harsh for Saskatchewan, who trekked alongside Ontario (well-dressed for the weather, and riding on a horseback), staring up at the guy with great envy for his better conditions. Ontario had on multiple layers of warmth whereas Saskatchewan had only his overalls and shirt, as well as old, small shoes with holes all over them. Nevertheless, the boy, who was rather accustomed to rough conditions, did not complain, much to Ontario's surprise.

Nighttime dragged on and still they ventured. By now Ontario was beginning to reconsider how weak he originally thought Saskatchewan to be. It never dawned upon Ontario to converse about this topic, however, as it would be completely inappropriate. Eventually, at about four in the morning on the 16th of November, they reached the RCMP barracks in Regina, and that is when Ontario opened up.

"You're a bloody rebel," He growled at Saskatchewan, jumping off of his horse and grabbing the boy by the collar of his shirt. "You're a damned rebel and you're going to pay for all the crimes you have committed!" Any normal child would have received a caning, or perhaps a birching, but Saskatchewan, it had been determined, was no normal child. And so when he flinched away from the thought of corporal punishment, Ontario just began to laugh. "You stupid twat! You think you're getting away with just a few taps on the backside, don't you?!" He tightened his grip on Saskatchewan's collar, recklessly yanking him in his direction. "I will make you cry… I will make you scream… I will make you cower in fear at the mere thought of disobeying me. I am your worst nightmare…"

 _The man was escorted by Mounties toward the hanging post on November 16th, 1885. His lawyer had suggested he plea insane but Riel declined, saying in short that a life without the dignity of sanity is meaningless and for that he shall die with the dignity of guilt._

Saskatchewan's eyes widened and he gasped at what he saw, trying to struggle out of Ontario's tight grip. He grunted loudly as he tried to yank the arm Ontario was grabbing, free. He took footsteps back and tugged with all his might but he still could not escape this grasp. Saskatchewan's hero was up there, about to be hanged, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

 _He stepped up there on that podium as John A Macdonald had told him to, as the RCMP had told him to, as seemingly everybody had told him to do. Macdonald stated that Riel shall die, though all the dogs in Quebec bark in his favour!_

Quebec. The man watched in horror. How could this happen here? Riel had helped Saskatchewan and here they were killing him?! Quebec had no idea that the child was innocent. Ontario had been so discreet.

"Riel!" Saskatchewan cried helplessly, beginning to tremble in a desperate attempt to pull free from Ontario. "Hang on! Hang on, Riel! Please survive!"

 _The noose was being tied. They were running out of time. Riel was stone-faced, brave as a warrior._

Saskatchewan screamed, kicking at Ontario and punching him with his free hand. But the child's attempts were easily overpowered by Ontario, who grabbed both of his arms and pulled them behind his back, before kicking him down to his knees. Ontario kept his strong, undefeatable grip, tightening it every time the kid thrashed or flailed around. Riel was up there and the noose had been tightened, Saskatchewan screaming at the top of his lungs for them to let the man free and even to kill him instead, but his protests went completely ignored. Saskatchewan closed his eyes, praying to every higher power he ever knew that the Mounties had some compassion and that Riel's body would not

 _Drop!_

His eyes were wide in horror, tears flooding down his cheeks. "NO!" He cried, hitting his head against the dirt out of pure frustration and fury. "NO, NO NO! NO! NO! NO!" He turned back to Ontario, whose face wore a sickening, demented smirk. Ontario once again tilted Saskatchewan's chin upward so that they could make (very unwanted) eye contact, and through his own screams and sobs, Saskatchewan was able to quite clearly hear Ontario's next words, growled in a quiet voice with a cruel smirk on the guy's face,

" _You'll be with him before you know it..."_


	2. The Marr Residence

The boy stood there before the house, his fist trembling as he looked up at its large doors. Was this even the place? He gulped and decided to take the risk. With slight reluctance, he brought his hand to the door and knocked three times, standing and waiting for a response. But this was very soft and so it was unlikely that he was heard. He bit his lip, knocking again, and found satisfaction once he heard running footsteps from the inside of the house. The door opened quickly to reveal a young man who wore wrinkled and bloody clothing. This man looked around for whichever being may have been at his home, before looking down and immediately noticing the boy at his doorstep.

The man gasped and was quick in picking the child up, holding the child in his arm as he closed the door. He looked over the boy's injured head and battered limbs with a horrified expression on his face as he ran through the corridors, yanking open a door to a room and setting the child down on the cot that was inside it. "What happened to you?" The man asked in a hushed voice, so as to not awaken the man in the bed beside.

"The Mounties beat me up," The child whined, the man cautiously shushing him and pointing at the other sleeping patient. The child, however, did not seem to care about this other man and instead continued his complaint. "They tried to kill me…"

"I have no doubt about that," This man whispered with a soft sigh, lying the boy down and draping a blanket over top of his battered, tired body. It was a miracle that this little tiny thing had made it all the way to Saskatoon, especially in his current state. But this man was no doctor. He was just the homesteader whose house was being used as a field hospital for whichever man escaped death following the injuries they received at Batoche. He had practically been forced to practise medicine, and was extremely grateful for the more knowledgeable people that had been told to help him. "How old are you? What is your name?"

At this, the little boy shrugged. "I don't know either of those," He admitted with a sigh. "What about you?"

"No name?" The man gasped. Everybody had a name! How could anybody live their lives without a name? He was extremely perplexed with what the child had told him but he forced himself not to drawl over this and instead conversed with the boy over the topic he had chosen. "My name is Alexander Marr. It's a bit of a tongue twister at your age, so you can call me-"

The boy had already begun, trying to pronounce this rather lengthy name. "Ala-" He stammered, of course getting it incorrect at first. "Ala- Ala-Sandy Marr…" He scrunched up his nose and furrowed his eyebrows, an expression which caused Alexander to chuckle, although the man vowed not to lose his patience with the young one who had already been through so much. This was evident on the clothing he wore and the injuries which littered his small, thin frame. Alexander pitied this child, who had clearly been through so much and had been given nothing to compensate. Why, the poor boy didn't even have his own name! "Sandy… Marr…"

"Y-You can call me Sandy, if you'd like," Alexander offered with a weak smile accompanying. "Now, I'll fetch you a medic, so you should just lie down and try to go to sleep…" As Alexander shuffled shyly away, he did not keep his eyes on the boy, but he was certainly on his mind. Soon enough, he figured, this child would find a way into his heart. Alexander wanted to know what happened to this child, who took care of him? Was he Riel's own son? Is that why he was despised so much by the RCMP? No, the chances were highly unlikely. Riel would have named this boy. Did this child have parents at all? Did this child need parents? Alexander sighed, approaching a young nurse by the name of Beatrice (though everybody called her Betty), and beseeching her assistance in bandaging the boy's wounds.

The child looked around the room, around at his surroundings. A small window was there, covered with pale yellow drapes. The walls were wood and were not painted, and the floor was hard, with a rug having been draped over it. There were two cots beside him: One was empty but contained wrinkled sheets and a blanket thrown to the side, as well as a pillow at the head. The other contained a tall, fat man that happened to be sleeping, who had thrown his blanket to the ground. The man had long, black braided hair, and wore long underwear underneath a pale green gown. There was a bandage wrapped around his hand, and he had a tourniquet around his right arm. There was a deep gash on his cheek that had been stitched up as well. The people here had provided that man this aid, even though others wouldn't, simply because of his race. Discrimination certainly existed here still, but the child smiled in admiration. "I knew it. All the people here are still kind."

The man opened his eye and looked straight at the little boy. "You really think that they wouldn't be?" He asked, to which the boy shrugged. "This is the North-West Territories. One land united. People, united."

Suddenly, the door swung open, revealing Betty in her dress and apron, a small carpetbag in her hand. She set it down and opened it, removing from it a vial and syringe. "Are you the young boy whom I was told fought bravely in Batoche?" She asked, to which the boy said yes. "I see that. What a courageous thing you've done for the North-West Territories. And I thank you."

"The RCMP-" The boy began, but was interrupted by Betty.

"I'm going to fix you up, but first I have to give you this medicine," was what she stated, and she quickly rolled up the boy's sleeve in order to do this. He looked at her with wide eyes, wincing as she stuck the syringe into his arm. It only took ten seconds for the child to be fast asleep.

'You expect me to believe that such awful things happen in Canada? Matthew Williams is extremely responsible and we both know he only makes choices that are in the best interest of his people. This would never happen.' The words hit him harder than any bullet, but he didn't dare back down from what might be the only chance at getting the madness to stop. Manitoba was out of prison and now he was in London arguing a case that he knew he'd never win. 'Why, the mere idea of it is absolutely insane!'

'Ontario is a nightmare to work with,' Manitoba snarled coldly. 'And I blame Matthew for putting him in charge.'

'Ontario is capable if Matthew makes that decision,' Arthur Kirkland himself was not having it. There was nothing anybody could get away with, and that was clear. 'Why are you beseeching help from me? Why not Canada himself?'

'Because the last time one of us asked Canada for help, he sent over one thousand armed men to hunt down and torture my little brother.'

The child woke up in the exact same room as he had fallen asleep in just a few hours ago. The scenery was very much the same, and the man in the cot next to him was sitting up straight. Although, the boy considered, this man probably would not be too keen on talking with him. The boy sighed and lie back down, looking above at the wooden ceiling, trying not to think much of the circumstance. This was the best field hospital in Saskatchewan…. Thank you Riel…. Thank you Marr.


	3. Ukrainian Immigration

**1891**

 _The District of Saskatchewan, an agricultural hub! Yes, it is indeed wonderful for those wishing to start a new life in the West. With its rolling fields of perfect soil, beautifully fertilized and ready for farming to commence! The west is a land of wonders! Why do you wait?_

The advertisement had certainly seemed appealing to a certain young woman, who was already on the train westbound from Toronto. She would stop at this little village known to the Canadians as Saskatoon, where she would then depart and see for herself exactly if this mission was worthwhile. Anything for the Doukhobor to escape would be sufficient enough, although, exactly how much was she willing to sacrifice? Life with her brother was frightening enough, and Yekaterina seeked a retreat from it all. She was hardworking and able-bodied, intelligent and friendly, however, she was not warlike. She couldn't tolerate the mere idea of this battle any longer, and she was entirely grateful that Canada had given her this amazing opportunity to try to start anew.

Yekaterina sighed nervously as she straightened out her dress, looking out the train's small window and granting herself a small bit of what one could consider a basic lesson in etiquette. "You must respect the natives, Yekaterina," She thought to herself, wishing not for these images to corrupt her view of idyllic-sounding Canada. She so looked forward to seeing this golden agricultural opportunity, although, perhaps her formality and anxiousness would hold her back from capturing her full potential. Perhaps she would meet a man here, although that was not her motivation to have accepted this offer. It was possible that she could somehow create an agricultural monopoly and gain influence and popularity. It was wholly possible, what with the right-winged worldview of the Canadian west. Capitalism boomed here. Yekaterina accepted that she would need to be open to these changes, even though she was not used to them. It was the way these people lived. She was simply a guest. One could even consider her a refugee. She had been accepted because of their morality, not because they wanted train after train of peace-loving Cossacks. She shook her head at that. She was not a Cossack.

After some days, she realized that she had not seen a town ever since they exited Ontario. Manitoba had _one,_ Winnipeg, which they drove right through without stopping. Perhaps there was no market for goods here. Perhaps the communities were settlements that remained far away from the railway, although Yekaterina couldn't imagine why this oddity would be. Canada was very different than what she knew as home. Would this be too difficult to accept? Would integration be expected of her? She dearly hoped that it was not. She had a certainty inside her that assimilation would be impossible to achieve.

Six days had passed, the majority of the train remaining in silence. Occasionally, a baby would cry, or a man would let out a few curse words, although, for the most part, the company lacked interaction with one another. It seemed as though this week would last forever, although, fortunately for the mere sanity of Yekaterina, on the sixth day, it was announced that the train had arrived in Saskatchewan, and that the people were to unload their luggage, as they would be in Saskatoon very shortly. Once again, excitement and anticipation filled Yekaterina, and with enthusiasm, she did as was asked of her, without a word on the matter. These prairies seemed to be extremely desolate. She could use the very sight of a town or village. Perhaps the feeling of isolation would then leave her. One could only hope.

The train station was not the most pleasant location in this district, Yekaterina was certain. It reeked of manure, and was crowded not by excited passengers, but by young newsboys, who screamed at the newcomers in an attempt to coerce them into a sale. Also prominent were those without homes, who would sit on the wooden deck of the train platform, looking dully and enviously at arriving and departing trains. They wished that they could afford such luxury. Even the beaten and old trains seemed desirable. Yekaterina tried not to analyze this sight too much; she did not want the sorrow of poverty-stricken Saskatchewan to negatively influence her opinion of the entirety of the place. Surely, it was not the entire district which was in such despair? Perhaps this was just a bad neighbourhood.

Departing the train, Yekaterina stepped onto the platform and followed after a few of the other immigrants, most displaced but excited for new opportunities. She tried desperately to ignore the faces of the locals, the sunken eyes and high cheekbones and bruised cheeks and busted lips. She tried to look the other way, but it was just terrible! How could such suffering be known as a golden heart of the Western world? Surely, there must be more than this! How could such a place be?

She felt them peering into the back of her head and frantically, she turned around, afraid of whichever person had been eyeing her now. To her surprise, it was a young boy who donned nothing but a stitched sack of flour. He had matted blonde hair and dark brown eyes which seemed to follow her as she went. His limbs and face were dirty, and insects flocked around him as if he was an animal carcass on which they could feast. The boy was covered in scars and welts and burns and bruises, and he wore the saddest expression on his face as he shadowed Yekaterina. She backed away with reluctance, but he shakily stepped forward, looking at her with pleading eyes as if to ask her for mere permission to remain in her presence. Yekaterina felt her heart sink, and, with a sigh, she told the boy to remain by her side.

The two of them walked alongside each other, although they had not managed to make conversation. How could they? Yekaterina spoke just Russian and her native tongue, and this boy, by the looks of it a Metis, spoke English, French, and Cree. She had never met he, and he had never met she, but somehow, the likelihood of incidence as well as compassion had managed to pull them together. The boy was so small and frail and he looked so sad and scared. It was really the least she could do.

After awhile of tiring walking, Yekaterina stopped and knelt down in front of the boy, removing her coat and draping it over his shoulders. Judging solely the small, weak smile that grew on his face, the boy was extremely grateful for this gift. In his life he had not been shown compassion. In his life he had not been shown love. Had this boy no parents? Had this boy no home? Yekaterina eyed him cautiously, before pointing slowly to herself. "Yekaterina of Ukraine," She told the boy. During the train ride, by reading a book, she had managed to teach herself minimal English, although she knew very well that this was insufficient under all circumstances. The boy appeared perplexed by her words. Had she said something wrong? Was this boy a Francophone? Yekaterina thought that French was highly discouraged around this time. Surely, he couldn't be a Francophone. Yekaterina had begun to worry, but fortunately, the boy reassured her.

"Saskatchewan," was what he said.

Yekaterina cocked her head in confusion, wanting for the boy to repeat his previous statement, although she was clueless as to how to make this request. Instead, biting her lip, she settled for an alternative. "Who are you?" She pieced together slowly.

"Saskatchewan." The boy repeated.

Yekaterina nodded her head now. This was the boy, now, wasn't it? Saskatchewan itself? Why had Matthew deceived her? Was this really a golden opportunity, or was it just a national burden infested with poverty, disease, and displacement? Perhaps Matthew had bought him from Britain solely to be able to purchase the railway. The Canadian West was divisible into a prairie trilogy of neighbouring Manitoba and Alberta, but had this district really ever been considered with the basic human care it deserved? "I am Ukraine," She said warmly.

The little boy stared at her with genuine curiosity, that excited smile growing just a tad more. "Have you come here to colonize me? Oh, I'd bet you'd be kinder at it than the English and then the Canadians…"

"No…" Yekaterina murmured in response as she ushered the boy forward, prompting him to walk at a higher pace like she. "I am here to work and nurture and care for the land. I am here to stay with you. I will take care of you. I will love you."

The boy's eyes went wide and now the stare was of disbelief, however still filled with joy. "Like a mother?"

"I suppose so…"

 _Saskatchewan was indeed agriculturally gifted, however, with no one more to work the land, the strength hadn't a chance to bloom. A strange newfound unity had been created in what looked like a dark time. Still in a subdued state of shock, discouragement, and slight depression from the cruel actions against Riel in Batoche just a few years back, the slowly-recovering district had gained international attention, specifically from the Doukhobors of Eastern Europe, and they flocked to the agricultural hub to seek new opportunities in the West. Previously, Saskatchewan had been rather segregated and not diverse, home to the English, the French, and the Natives. It was not strong many persons, however, now, along came popularity from the Poles and Ukrainians, who made up the majority of immigration entering Saskatchewan at that time. The mass immigration wave was the first in Saskatchewan's history, and some could even consider it the biggest. Prideful, it was to the people of Saskatchewan, previously displaced and discouraged and disgusted, that now, people wished to call their district home. It was a chance for its old population to start anew. This wave was one of many events, people, and periods, which shaped what is now Saskatchewan. From the people, the province gained strength._


	4. Provincial Status

_**TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains a couple of sentences, where racist terms are used. Back in the day, it was commonplace for these terms to be used, as people didn't really care that they were offending people. It was especially common for Aboriginals to be called "Indians," and that is the term used in this chapter. Please understand that I do not condone using discriminatory language, and I only use it in context relevant to the time period. This is not me personally being racist, as I don't try to convey these messages through my text; I am just portraying how it was common back in the day to use this abhorrent language.**_

 _ **September 1, 1905**_

Typically, women stayed behind at home to help with the cleaning, while the men went to work. Things worked differently on farms, as calloused-handed women were seen planting seeds over fields that men had plowed, milking the cows and feeding and fattening the chicks for their slaughter. Most of Saskatchewan remained an agricultural hub, specializing in grains, as evident by its big rolling fields of wheat. Trains would pass through and occasionally spot a boy toiling with his brothers and sisters in these famous fields. Everyone needed an infamous pitchfork and hoe, most of the time crafted by family members such as wives. In the wintertime the people managed to bring up livestock, and some of the more innovative persons set up crafts such as sewing and baking, which they would load up into a horse-drawn cart (or crates carried by their sons) and sell in town for an extra profit. This was often discussed by the two brothers, Alberta and Saskatchewan, whose jobs remained very similar.

"Did you know," The small boy, who had begun to speak with a slight Ukrainian accent, partly in thanks to his mother, "that there's no jobs hiring, and that's how come everyone got a job?" He had yet to attend grammar school, as evident by the obvious shortcomings in his speech. Schooling was not particularly important for children of Saskatchewan, most of whom stayed behind to work, anyways. Occasionally, it would be seen that one of them would grow up to move away to Ontario to look for a better life. Apparently, Ontario did not disappoint. These were the English settlers: The natives and Doukhobors would never be given the chance.

"But Alberta is the best in the west," His brother, who appeared to be slightly taller and of a much stronger build, commented. The brothers, twins born on September first of the same year, looked oddly different in appearance. The only things that tied them together was the pale skin and wheat-blonde hair that both of the boys possessed. The similarities stopped there. Alberta's eyes were sky-blue, and Saskatchewan's a dark green shade. Alberta donned a blue shirt, whereas his brother wore a light yellow shirt sewn by the woman now claimed to be his mother. Alberta seemed to be richer, in every sense of the word. He was a livestock farmer, known for an abundance of beef which sold all throughout the North-West Territories. Saskatchewan did nothing more than sell wheat locally. There was no question as to why one made more money than the other.

"The best at selling _beef,"_ The other corrected, arms crossed over his chest as he sat down on the wooden porch of his brother's house. They were next-door neighbours, and yet, one had evidently spent more money on his home. Whereas on the Saskatchewan side, sod was the main component, the house directly westward was made of wood, with real glass windows. It had even been painted red! The boy wondered in awe, how his brother had gotten that money, and why he hadn't shared it. It seemed that Alberta just lived in riches, a luxurious prairie lifestyle, if that term even existed. Perhaps Ontario gave the District of Alberta more money than it gave Saskatchewan. There was no way in the World that beef was worth so much more than grain! Alberta, however, was living proof of that.

"Why don't you follow my lead instead of doing whatever's being done out east in Manitoba and Quebec?" The Albertan now questioned his brother as he skipped a stone across some dirt in his front lawn. "The beef industry is booming, and you know that only means more food and money for me!"

Money seemed to fuel a lot of debates. Even historically, it would lead to things as terrible as warfare! This was one fear prevalent, one that shouldn't be. Canada was not a nation born from war. Canada was always able to negotiate their way into whatever it is they wanted, whether that be something good or bad. Matthew himself had a certain way with words. "Well, my mother told me not to worry about money all too much." Said the Saskatchewaner in his own defense. "We have food and a home and family and that's all we really need to survive. Did you know that a long time ago, there was a world without money?"

The Albertan now had his mouth wide open in shock. Had he a mother, she would have warned him against doing this, as it appeared to be extremely rude. Unfortunately, he had no mother, and though he was hardworking and wise with spending money, he was not the most well-mannered. "A world without money!" He blurted. "You sound like a communist! A world without money! Can you believe that, Saska-"

The sound of a man mounted jarred the two from their conversation, as, trotting down the pathway, a tall, fat horse and her intimidating master, riding seemingly without any care in the world. Both boys recognized the appearance of this man almost immediately: He was dressed in bright red clothing, and had blonde hair visible from a mile away. His violet eyes glistened under the beating sun, and as he became closer and closer, his face was more and more identifiable. The wide-brimmed brown hat worn on his head had a slight tilt, a mere indication of this man's disorganization and lack of discipline. Most of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police were extremely disciplined, and would often flaunt this skill pompously, as if to make fun of those whom they considered inferior. The boys both rose in his presence, knowing the repercussions faced by not showing this man their utmost honour and respect. This respect was highly faked on both parts; the Northwest Rebellion and the Cypress Hills Massacre were enough to arise anybody's brooding hatred, especially if these common beliefs of distrust and brutality were prominent throughout the organization.

" _Oi!"_ Matthew cried from a distance of two hundred metres away, easily audible to the two boys perched on the Albertan's porch. "I have information for the both of you, so listen the hell up!"

Both brothers looked at each other. " _What now?"_ The Albertan whispered, in an attempt to cheer up his brother, whose lip had begun to quiver and whose legs had bent and started to tremble so quickly it was practically a vibration. This attempt was highly unsuccessful. Ever since that fateful day only twenty years ago, the boy shook at the sight of a Mountie. He had run to Yekaterina for protection, diving behind her and once even underneath the hem of her dress. Every time, he was disciplined for this, but never severely. It was never anything more than a verbal reprimand, especially when this instinct was not wholly his fault. The lack of attention Yekaterina focused on discipline had to do in part with how much pity she had for this poor boy. She just hoped he would not misbehave, although she was never proactive about it.

"I spoke with your _brother,"_ Matthew spat coldly at both boys, though this insulting tone was clearly meant to target just one of the two, and it was obvious which one that was. One was clearly more terrified of this man than his peers, and he felt his body shrink into itself as he became more and more tense, a reaction of fear in its purest form. If Matthew said anything more, tears would threaten to spill, and the boy had no defence against them. It would not be customary to demand he be left alone, either: This only worked with his mother and brothers and sisters. To beg it of a Mountie would be laughable and would result in a severe physical pain. He was aware that they carried horsewhips.

Matthew continued the taunting, an almost devilish smirk cast on his face. "They want more rights down here, don't they? In these territory parts? You know, you Indians and your sisters and the Doukhobor Cossacks?"

"They're starving!" Cried the boy in protest, looking up at Matthew with an expression of disdain, which had yet to overpower fear but was beginning to show its ugly face into the equation. "They want more food rations from the government! They try and they try and they try but it's to no avail! And the Prime Minister never did anything about it!"

Matthew listened for a few moments, a fake look of interest making its way onto his face. The Prairie Brothers knew that he was never really interested in listening to anything they had to say, and this expression of feigned fascination did not get their hopes up. Instead of answering them with respect, however, Matthew struck both of them, facing one with a scowl. "Are you done?" He asked, never once dismounting his horse.

On the Saskatchewan side of the surveyor census, boys were more accustomed to being struck with weapons much worse than the belt of their fathers. Though Matthew's horsewhip drew blood, the smaller of the two boys barely reacted, merely flinching as the weapon tore through his cheek and left a cut about five centimetres long, running from his forehead across his cheek, just underneath his left eye. His brother, on the other hand, hissed out in pain and grasped his cut with his hand, groaning loudly. " _Why, you-"_ He began, but did not dare continue, instead letting the blood flow as he stared back at Matthew, fearing another lash. The lacerations stung; neither one of these boys desired another.

"Good job, you hideous freaks of nature," Matthew spat at the twins, shaking his head as he put the horsewhip back on a holster on his belt, immediately afterward, pulling out a piece of parchment paper. "They have decreed you as your own separate provinces. They will build a fence, and you will never see each other again!"

"You can't do that!" One of the boys cried out in protest, hands balled into fists.

"We're not ready for provincial status! Not after all you've done!" The other wailed.

Matthew merely shrugged his shoulders, replying coldly, "Well, you have to understand, it's all your fault."

Not a bit of compassion was given when Matthew picked up a stick, tracing the line where the fence would go. Surveyors and labourers had been tasked with marking the new territorial border of Saskatchewan, which was entirely artificially created by the Canadian government, none of it determined geographically. It came as a shock and horror to both Alberta and Saskatchewan when the houses were both demolished, and it was demanded they move at the very least one hundred kilometres apart, a distance impossible for either of the boys to travel in the span of a day. To scare them further, they were told that the provincial border would be heavily guarded by "only the strongest" of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, all of whom carried guns capable of immediately killing a man with one shot. This was entirely false, however, both boys were scared into believing it. That fateful afternoon, they were both marched off in different directions, so quickly that they were unable to say a proper goodbye.

That night, Yekaterina told him to wash up in the washbasin, with a cloth she had weaved just a few weeks prior. Unlike most, she understood entirely why the boy wept as much as he did that night. He and his brother were next-door neighbours, and so his brother would often frequent his house. That would happen no longer, as it was forbidden. She urged him to speak, but he did not express interest in doing this, and she did not force him to. Yekaterina found it to be extremely damaging, to demand something of somebody when they are most vulnerable. The boy's face was red and teary, the complexion of it even darker than his hair (although most colours and shades were, regardless). He had cleaned his own wound, however, he refused to bandage it, insisting that "a true man" flaunts his lacerations as if they were battle scars, something that would supposedly equal honour and dignity. Yekaterina allowed this.

"I heard that between you and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, there happen to be troubles," Yekaterina probed gently, hoping dearly that the boy would ease up and speak with her. She had experienced tension that lead to this sort of silence before, and she absolutely despised it in all manners. Tension was a symbol of all bad things: distrust, distaste, disgust, disappointment, disdain… She only hoped for it to go away. It had no place in her household, shoving its ugly self into her life once again. Tensions had never arisen between Alberta and Saskatchewan, and though the boy would constantly speak of becoming a province, he wanted to do so alongside his brother, whom he seemed to honour highly. Yekaterina remembered time and time again when the boy would comment, "I wish Alberta wanted to be a province with me." or, "I wonder when Ontario will let us be a province." She had never once countered this idea: If it was what made this boy happy, she would let him obsess over it. It seemed he had only his brother in this life, anyways. She wanted him to have a reason for living, a reason to rise happy in the morning, and a reason to continue with what would otherwise be a difficult day.

"It hit me…" The boy responded, a hand over the wound which had noticeably cut far deeper than the surface of his skin. This was not truly the reason he was upset, however, in this situation, he was more than willing to lie. "It hit me… and it hit me hard…"


End file.
